


i might believe a good deal of it, too

by explosiontimothy



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Autism, Calm Before The Storm, London Era (Black Sails), M/M, Period-Typical Ableism, Period-Typical Homophobia, but doesn't have the language to explain it, james is autistic, unfortunately they don't know what's coming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:14:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28660029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/explosiontimothy/pseuds/explosiontimothy
Summary: James McGraw learns how to not act in this way, in this queer way, because it is what one does.--aka "james mcgraw is autistic and that's the that on the that: the fic"
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton
Comments: 28
Kudos: 76





	i might believe a good deal of it, too

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: a lot of the experiences described here are my own experiences as a person on the spectrum and by no means universal to all autistic people. unfortunately, i do not have a thomas hamilton on hand for weight stimmy purposes
> 
> there are some descriptions of sensory overloads so tread carefully

The first time James’ hands move in their odd patterns in front of someone else is when he can finally name all the sails on a ship without having to check them in the book. He does not even realise it is happening until Hennessey looks at him as if he has thrown up on his boots. James immediately stops himself, but it is much too late. 

“So what is to be done _about_ it?” Hennessey asks, later, with the same expression of disgust on his face. “Will he need treatment? He is to be a sailor, you know. He needs to be of a sound mind.”

James’ breath shakes but he knows he is not supposed to speak. This conversation about him cannot include him. 

“I cannot see any of the usual signs of madness,” the surgeon once again peers into James’ eyes, pulling his eyelid back painfully. “No fevers. No rambling. His eyes are not red. I would assume, Captain, that what you witnessed was a singular occasion of a nervous tic that can be bested with good discipline. If it happens again, you just say the word and we send him to Bedlam for a course of bloodletting and baths. That’ll set the boy straight.”

 _Bedlam._ It is not a name James has heard before yet the air around the words _bloodletting_ and _baths_ makes fear wrench itself around James’ wrists. The name weighs his hands down with all the force of a pair of iron manacles.

He is twelve. 

***

As James grows, he learns what Bedlam is. A girl from the boarding house where he stays as a boy starts screaming in the night, for no ostensible reason. Just screaming. A sharp, unpleasant sound that digs right into the base of James’ neck and the volume of it makes him weep in the dark, though he does not quite know why he is weeping.

In the morning, she is gone and the screaming has stopped.

“They took her to the madhouse,” says one of the other boys. “Men came this morning and took her. To Bedlam.”

The name and the sick memory of it makes something hot churn in James’ stomach. He runs outside so he can throw up behind the bins in the back alley. 

And so, he learns how important it is to hide it. It is odd, he does not even have a name for what _it_ is, because the way his body and mind function at times are so unbidden that they feel like distant dreams. But he learns to not act in this way, in this _queer_ way because it is what one does. 

When he becomes acutely aware of the rub of his clothes against his skin, he runs his thumb over the edges of seashells he collects when no one is looking. When he gets the impulse to rock backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet, he clenches his jaw so hard he wonders how it does not break. It would be a relief, he thinks, to one day feel his teeth turn into salt and lie grainy on the tip of his tongue. Maybe they would taste like the sea. 

James finds the hiding places where no one else would think to look and he occupies them fully. He learns to keep his hands behind his back and his back as taut as a bowstring to the point of hurt. When he becomes a midshipman, his commander praises him for his perfect posture. James presses his thumb into his palm to stop his hands from lashing out, from being _queer_ . He attempts to smile back but it does not seem to work quite as he thought, as his commander regards him curiously, with an eyebrow raised. _Stop showing your teeth when you smile,_ James remembers but it is too late—there is already audible snickering at his side. 

The snickering rings in his ears, later, as his fist moves up, and down, and up, and down, on Jimmy Frasier’s face. 

He is seventeen. 

“McGraw!” They have been split apart now but James is still struggling against the grip on his elbows, growling, thrashing like a caged animal. “McGraw, cut it out!”

Frasier got it worse, really; James thinks, with a vicious sense of satisfaction that he will probably be wheezing through his nose for the rest of his life. The lieutenant on duty is not impressed.

“What happened?” he demands and James opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. The words swim in his head and break against his skull like waves and he cannot make them sit still, not enough to put them into anything coherent. His throat spasms at the thought. 

Frasier sees his time to shine. “I took his little fucking _book_ ,” he spits, some of the blood landing near James’ boots. “All this for a stupid book, Sir.” 

“Enough.” The lieutenant—James doesn’t even know his name, hasn’t bothered to learn it, they come and go like the wind, those commanders—levels them both with a stern gaze. “I do not tolerate violence on my ship, but I tolerate thievery even less so. You will both have two dozen lashes at five bells.” 

The pain of the whipping is bad. It is so bad that James does not even try to think of it for fear that it will drive him fully mad. His hands flex uselessly, spread out in front of his face, and Lord, it is so difficult, so difficult to keep them in place. He curls and uncurls his little finger and his ring finger with every lash and he quotes himself passages from the _Aeneid_ , again and again, even though they are in the wrong order. He comforts himself with the thought that Frasier threw up after the first dozen. James knows to never eat before a lashing. 

Afterwards, James is dragged to the infirmary as he cannot stand on his feet. His hearing immediately hones in on the mocking whispers again and the echo of them coils into his stomach, cold and unpleasant. The surgeon, Mr. Goodsir, dabs at the wounds on his back with a cloth that smells strongly and makes his skin itch and burn. At the end of his tether, James’ fingers dig into the sheet beneath him, his knuckles white with exertion. 

When Goodsir speaks, there is no malice in his voice. “I’m sorry for the pain. It’s necessary to prevent infection and putrefaction of the wounds.” 

“It’s fine,” James manages through the lump lodged deep in his throat. He does not look at the man. His fingers keep flexing. 

“I would like you to stay here tonight. You are running a slight fever and need to be kept under observation.” 

And this, of all things, is the last straw that sinks the ship of his mind on this nightmare day. James can withstand many things that rake against every single impulse in his body, he can grind his jaw and clench his hands together and keep his back straight, all with the knowledge that at the end of the day he will be in his hammock, able to rub his chin against his scratchy blanket, again and again and again. Now, even this small mercy is taken away from him. So he feels the dam within him break; it flows out of him before he can make it stop. He does not think he can cry, for he has never been very good at doing so in the presence of others, but Lord does he wish to. He wants to scream and rock backwards and forwards but every part of him feels frozen solid.

His head is fuzzy, as if it is an open wound full of cotton and gravel. Mr. Goodsir’s voice permeates, somehow. “Hey. Hey, calm down, please. You will reopen your wounds. Please— please calm down.” 

It is then that James realises that he has clenched his muscles tight, folded into himself as far as his wounded body would go. God, it all feels so _much_ , his head hurts from the assault on each and every one of the sensations he is exposed to and he has no idea how to make it stop. 

“Will you tell me your name?”

James cracks an eye open and he sees Goodsir’s hand on the bed near him but nowhere near his skin. Good. James does not wish to be touched when he is like this, his skin crawls at the thought of it. “McGraw,” he replies, even if his entire being is fighting the very idea of making noise.

“McGraw. Midshipman, correct?” Why is this man talking to him in this way? What nefarious purpose does he hold? How much longer does James have to put up with this? “And your Christian name?” 

“James.” 

“James,” Goodsir repeats, as if to solidify it, to confirm that yes, he is _James_. “Good. Thank you, James. Now, you do not have to do anything you do not want to, okay? You are safe here, tonight. No one else will bother you.” 

Why is Goodsir telling him this?

“I should go back to the orlop deck,” James grunts, even if he has made no move to unclench himself from his position. His muscles feel frozen solid. “Sir,” he adds, as an afterthought.

“It is my medical opinion that you should not,” Goodsir counters him, gently but firmly. “You are in need of observation and I will assure the Lieutenant as much. But more importantly, to my eyes, you are in need of some good long rest. Some silence. Am I correct?”

James does not move, he only focuses on Goodsir’s hand on the bedclothes. It is a nice hand. His fingers are long and elegant; steady. It looks soft. 

“All right,” Goodsir says even though James has not replied. “I have laudanum on hand, should you wish for some relief during the night. There is a blanket on the floor next to the bed. Take it if you are cold, though it may feel unpleasant on your back. And if you have a need for something, anything at all, please call out— I am working but I will hear you.” He stops, as if to consider. “Or, tap on the bedframe. I will be listening. I promise, James.”

It is then that James raises his eyes to look at Goodsir — he has not really done so before. He sees a strong jaw, a plush mouth, the ridge of a straight nose. He does not look in his eyes, for he worries what his own will reveal. 

He makes no sound. Goodsir smiles and nods and leaves. 

James understands now — he is truly alone, on a _bed_ , not in a hammock. Experimentally, he runs his naked ankle along the sheet until it reaches the wooden corner of the small cot he has been placed in. The wood is rough and unsanded; it scratches against his skin and will most likely bruise and splinter if he keeps on. Yet still, the motion grounds him, it makes the incessant hammering in his chest slow down at least a little. So James continues rubbing his foot on that corner, again and again, until he feels his back muscles unwind a bit. It is enough for sleep to overtake him as pain-induced fatigue washes over him. 

For no reason at all, he dreams of Mr. Goodsir’s long, elegant hands. 

***

Where he feels himself unable to find comfort in other people, James is delighted to find it in books. He reads voraciously and constantly, at first dawn and at last light, by lantern light during his watches, under the rays of the morning sun as it rises and bathes the mainmast. He has read everything in Hennessey’s library by the time he’s 20. His ward does not begrudge him for it; he praises that James looks and sounds _cultured,_ tells him he is bound to impress his superiors. It is not often that he receives praise for his odd ways from Hennessey, so James takes it fully to heart. In the dark of night, when he is on his own, he begins reading out loud, slowly warping his tongue around the words and biting it whenever it slips into his West Country drawl. 

The other sailors think him a snob and mock him for his lettered ways. To defend himself, James lashes out and snarls, his temper as fiery as the colour of his hair. Whether out of fear or respect for Hennessey, the sailors leave him alone and begin to stray from him.

***

The day he is given his assignment, James begins to prepare himself extensively, weeks in advance, for his first meeting with Lord Hamilton. In the carriage on the way to Whitehall, he repeats what he is going to say to him, over and over again. Introduce yourself. Listen. Nod. Arrange a time and place for the next meeting. Easy.

It is not easy. Lord Hamilton takes him by surprise when they leave Whitehall, starts talking about his superiors and how he has _asked about him_. When surprised, James’ tongue is sharper than is proper, than is allowed. He immediately regrets the comeback the second it leaves his mouth and expects admonishment to follow immediately. Instead, Lord Hamilton only huffs a laugh, his bright eyes carefully studying James’ face. And James — James, who has, his whole life, feared looking into the eyes of others — now meets Lord Hamilton’s and is not compelled to look away. 

Later, in his rooms, James’ hands itch with the desire to smash something into the wall. He throws his coat on a nearby chair and undresses down to his smallclothes, sitting down on his bed and pulling his knees to his chest. His bare toes grip the bedclothes the same way his fingers play with the overlong sleeves of his shirt. It is one of his hiding places, the long sleeves—he can easily justify it (buying tailor made shirts is expensive on a Navy Lieutenant’s pay) and it stops his hands from being queer because he can feel the nice, orderly seams of the sleeves with his thumb instead. 

One question bothers him more than usual: _why did he say that?_ He replays it over and over in his mind, the expression on Lord Hamilton’s face, the smile, the eyes. He decides that the Earl’s son was amused by James speaking out of turn and that it would not happen again. 

It does happen again. The very next day; Lord Hamilton asks a question, and, before he can stop himself, James once again lets his tongue lash out. It makes unpleasant heat ride up his back, because there it is again, that same expression on Lord Hamilton’s face. If only James knew what it _meant_.

“Strange pairs, Lieutenant,” Lord Hamilton remarks, and his eyes are so goddamn _blue_ , “they can achieve the most _unexpected_ things.”

This is not a position James has found himself in before, and as all unfamiliar scenarios, it scares him. Before, he has never much cared about what any of his colleagues think of him; as long as he is tolerated and left in peace to do his job, he would tolerate everyone right back. But with Lord Hamilton—with _Thomas,_ as the man had stubbornly insisted, multiple times—he suddenly wants more. He wants to be _liked_. 

It aches like a vulnerable spot inside him. He imagines that these thoughts reside in the fold of his knee or the bend of his elbow—places that a blade could be thrust into with enough force to decimate him for life. James has enough things to decimate him already, enough things that he has to hide from intruding eyes. He firmly decides to put it all aside for the time being, convinced as he is that Thomas and his wife consider him, the educated carpenter’s son turned seaman, to be a curiosity and nothing more. 

***

“... And did you see what Thomas’ father has saddled with him now? That Navy Lieutenant?” 

Every muscle in James’ body tenses up and his hand clenches his glass of wine so much that he fears he will break it. The two men stand in the parlour, clearly on their way out—James, as is his habit, hovers near the door. His hearing immediately zones in on the two voices.

“Ah, yes, of course.” He does not recognise the voices. “The uptight little man with the ginger hair?”

“Odd creature, is he not?” 

“Speaks very posh, for a sailor. Do you reckon he’s educated?” 

“Lord knows. Putting on a show for Thomas most likely—heard him going on and on to him about the _Canterbury Tales_ of all things. Good grief.”

“Was he indeed? When Thomas introduced me, I was almost inclined to think a man an imbecile, had it not been for the uniform. He barely said a word bar from his name and, what with the way he stares,—”

James abruptly turns on his heel and walks towards the rear door of the parlour, the one that leads towards the garden. He should not have listened. He should have turned away the moment they started speaking of him. It is not the first time, and he is by now well used to the idea of being discussed, of being odd. Yet, for some reason, this time it stings. 

It stings because they are right. It stings because they are Thomas' peers and what is to say that, beneath all his apparent goodwill, Thomas does not secretly think the same?

The restlessness swirls within him like the tide of the ocean. He finds his way to a stone bench near a rose bush and he sits down, aware of his thighs trembling. The Hamiltons' garden is pleasant—well manicured, orderly, with a pleasant smell. He feels entirely out of place in it, because everything inside him feels scrambled, ugly, rough like a keel in urgent need of careening. He can barely stand it.

James sets his glass next to him and wrings his hands, again and again and again. _I was almost inclined to think the man an imbecile_ , he hears again and before he can fully know it he has started rocking back and forth, in time with the wringing of his hands. _Quite right, too,_ he thinks darkly, _for what man of a sane mind behaves in a queer way such as this?_ The voice in his head sounds appallingly like Admiral Hennessey or, perhaps, like his grandfather.

“Lieutenant?” 

Fear freezes James’ muscles as he staggers to his feet, shoving the glass of wine on the ground in the process. It breaks in half and what’s left of the wine soaks in the damp soil. 

“Lady Hamilton,” James staggers, unwilling to look down to where the crystal is lying shattered at his feet, unwilling to think how it probably costs more than a few months of his pay. “I am terribly sorry, I will—”

Lady Hamilton just watches him with that terribly knowing look she always has in her eye. “Please, Lieutenant, do not worry. It is but a trifle.” She nods and moves over to sit next to him, the fabric of her exquisite dress rustles in the night—a dark purple, rippling under the muted lights in the garden. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Are you quite alright?”

James feels heat climb up his cheeks. How much, exactly, had Lady Hamilton seen? “Quite, my Lady. Just needed to get some air.” He looks away from her, immediately conscious of what he had heard just moments ago. He must not stare. It is not proper. He cannot stare at the way her shoulder is almost bare without her shawl, in the warm summer evening. “If you would like, I can escort you to—”

“Thomas’ mother gave us those glasses.” Lady Hamilton studies the one she holds in her hand. The candlelight bounces off its edges. “They were a wedding present, you know.” 

“I am very sorry,” James struggles immensely to control his voice as he feels the heat of embarrassment travel up to his ears. “I can replace—”

“We hate them.”

“I— beg pardon?”

“Absolutely, positively cannot stand them.” Her smile envelops him and he is, not for the first time, struck breathless with how beautiful she is. “One evening, when Thomas was working himself stupid, I dragged him out of his office and put a row of them on the dining room table. We competed to see which one of us would down more using nothing but chess pieces from the equally hideous chess set his father gave to him on the occasion of his graduation from Oxford.” 

Unbidden, James huffs a laugh. 

“You are unusually high-strung, Lieutenant,” Lady Hamilton continues. “And Thomas and I would like to make sure you know that you have no reason to be so around us. We invited you here tonight because we would like to get to know you. There is no hidden motive in it, no design. I would very much like you to trust us. Just be yourself.” 

In a sudden move, she reaches to place her hand on James’ knee. It is small and warm and it sends a jolt in his body that he clamps down on, clenching his muscles to stop his leg from bouncing up and down as it is wont to do. With a sharp inhale, he nods and hopes that in the darkness Lady Hamilton is unable to see the way his cheeks redden.

***

She arrives at his doorstep the next day, with her neck long and the curve of her shoulder just as tempting as it had been the night before. James is not a man beyond temptation.

He fucks her in the carriage, muffling his groans with bitefuls of her dress. She only laughs in his ear; a warm, delighted sound. It feels as right as anything else in his life ever does. He thinks, wildly: at least in this way, I am normal. He thinks, guiltily: at least in this way, I am safe. 

***

He thinks he loves her. He knows he must love her, because every time he looks at her he feels something burning inside of him, like a piece of coal wedged in his belly. He has never felt anything even remotely like this for any other woman in his life. He thinks of Paris and Helen and wonders which one of the two he is. Miranda is not fickle or traitorous in her affection—she gives it willingly, she whispers in his ear and kisses his body with a care that he has never before felt— and yet James wonders. He has read so much about what love is, about how it manifests and thinks, desperately, that yes, this must be love, it all fits. Doesn’t it?

The thought that Miranda is someone else’s love tortures him beyond belief. However, when next he sees Thomas, there is no change. Thomas still smiles and offers him tea, Thomas still launches in a passionate defence of the Whigs’ latest economic policy and James still finds it in himself to contradict him with the gentle humour they always have. In his pocket, he presses his thumb against the sharp edge of a seashell until it bleeds but he does not know why. 

“Thomas knows about us,” Miranda tells James as she once again leads him to her bed by way of the servants’ entrance. “So maybe, for all our sakes, you can come to my chambers at a normal time and not in the dead of night.”

James’ feet go cold and his heart starts beating wildly.

“He knows? He _knows_?!”

“Yes, he knows. For God’s sake, please keep your voice down. He hates being woken up in the middle of the night.” Miranda shoves James’ coat off his shoulders as if she has not destroyed his entire world with two words. 

“Miranda, stop. Stop. Do you realise — the consequences this could have? With one word he could destroy everything, my career, all I have worked towards, _everything._ ” His teeth grind and his fingers clench, and any attempt to stop them is utterly pointless. “This is a mistake, we cannot—”

Miranda grabs his face in her hands and holds him steady, unable to look away. The buzz in his head goes immediately, blissfully quiet.

“James,” she says firmly. “Look me in the eye and tell me that you truly think that Thomas would intentionally bring you any harm.”

He wrenches his eyes shut instead. He cannot. He cannot because if he does she will see. She will realise. 

She sees anyway. She realises anyway.

“Oh, darling,” Miranda says as she leads him to the bed. His foot finds the edge of the frame and he rubs it, again and again, thinking back to a ship and a pair of elegant hands and the muscles in his back twitch involuntarily. Miranda doesn’t comment on it, she does not say what she has or has not seen in his face and his silence, she just rubs gentle circles into his back. They only hold each other that night and for a long time he does nothing but breathe. He focuses on the warm, fragile smell of her throat, and thinks he must love her, he must. It all fits. Doesn’t it? 

***

The hiding places that James has relied upon his whole life do not seem to exist in Thomas and Miranda’s company. Under their careful gazes, there is nowhere to hide. 

Crowded spaces have always been difficult for James, simply because of the amount of _noise_ in them. It’s not even just voices. Voices he can handle. It’s steps and breathing and the clinking of glasses and the scraping of forks on plates and the stifling, horrible feeling that he is surrounded and that there is no escape. 

He pushes it down, because he must. He puts up with it, because he must. But today it is simply too much. 

James has been in meetings all day and then he had rushed to the Hamiltons’ home, already running an hour late for his meeting with Thomas. When he had arrived, the parlour was already full of guests — and of course, it is a Thursday, and on Thursday Thomas always has his political salon, but with everything James had forgotten. 

When he sees him, Thomas looks apologetic for some unknown reason. He sidles up to James quickly, pushing a wine glass in his hands. 

“I’m very sorry, James. If I had known you were coming, I would have cancelled it.”

“Why on earth would you cancel it?” asks James, bewildered. “I was the one who was late for our meeting.”

“Our work is more important,” Thomas replies easily. “Please, don’t feel obliged to stay, but if you do, I hope we can catch some time for a quiet discussion afterwards.” 

So with that thought, James stays, because Thomas is right: they are already running behind on their schedule and Hennessey had only today asked James for a report that James had not been able to give him. There is talk in the Admiralty that the Earl of Ashbourne will be visiting soon, and the whispers have reached James. The thought fills him with some kind of dread that he cannot fully comprehend. 

“Good evening.” James turns to see Miranda’s bright eyes and beautiful smile. “I’m glad to see you. I missed you today.”

Quietly, James lets his index finger stroke her wrist, hidden behind the swathes of her dress.

“I missed you too.” 

James tries to engage in the discussion about the Jacobites but he finds himself unable to. The tension in his wrists feels like it’ll snap him in half. He is so bone-deep tired and often he finds himself staring at the intricate carvings on the Hamiltons’ panelled walls, or at the golden arms of the ticking grandfather clock, and thinking of… well, nothing in particular. Words flash through his mind, words mostly relating to ship rigging, but he is distant, alone. He feels removed from his own body and all the noise around him is just so _loud_. James leans against the wall at a spot next to the hearth, where he hopes no one can see him, and closes his eyes; he attempts to comfort himself with thoughts of the fire crackling in Thomas’ study and of talking about the outfitting of the ships they plan to send to the Bahamas. It does not help. There is some kind of scent in the air— of human sweat, of overly powdered wigs, maybe?— and even that makes James’ head feel like it’s on fire. When the clock chimes, James involuntarily flinches. He does not know why he feels like this. Instinctively, his fingers seek out the hem of his sleeve, and he realises he can’t reach it because of his coat, which he has still not taken off. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Thomas’ voice reaches him as he addresses the room. “I am afraid I must draw the evening to an earlier close tonight. Miranda is feeling quite unwell and I must see to her.” And truly, Miranda has disappeared from the room. “I appreciate your thoughts as always. Ah, Coleridge, of course, shall I see you next week? I’m sure we can catch up at—”

“Psst.” If James hadn’t been so overly attuned to every sound in the room, he could have almost missed the quiet hushed. 

He had not realised he was standing so close to the door of Thomas’ study until he sees it is cracked open and Miranda is beckoning him inside. With a look around him, James places his glass of wine on the mantelpiece and slips through. The blessed silence of the study, the well-familiar smell of old paper, ink, and something that he can’t quite identify, the near-darkness only illuminated by two solitary candles, it all wraps him up in a cocoon of comfort. 

“Miranda, what—”

She hushes him and pushes his coat off his shoulders. “Relax. It’s over now, I promise.”

“Are you well?” He looks at her with concern. “Thomas said you weren’t feeling your best.”

“Ah, yes.” Her eyes shine in the warm light of the study. “It’s not the first time we’ve played this little theatre. Sometimes they really can go on, can’t they? No, dearest, we simply wanted to have everyone leave so you could have some peace and quiet. We told a little white lie I'm afraid. Can you forgive us?”

James blinks, confused. He has not even realised when his thumbs started fiddling with the ends of his sleeves.

“I told Thomas that—”

Miranda hushes him again. 

“Thomas will handle the stragglers. He’s good at that. And you can stay here as long as you need to and then join me in bed. Or, if you prefer, you can take the chaise here. Lord knows Thomas does so often. You won’t be bothered, I promise.”

“Why?” he asks, bewildered, through the dryness of his throat. 

Miranda pauses, looking at him over her shoulder. “We care about you. We saw that you were struggling and wanted to help. Is that so difficult to believe?”

It is. James wants to tell her that this is not proper, that this is not right, that it is not _done_ , but before he can do that, he is left alone only with the crackling of the candles and Thomas’ office. It feels odd, to be here alone. He feels as if he is intruding on a private space, even if he knows it is ridiculous — he has been here so many times. Just the familiar air of the room makes his frayed nerves calm down and he breathes, once, twice. He goes to the bookshelf and runs his fingers over the worn leather spines of the books, feeling every single ridge under them. He traces then the leaf pattern on the dark wood of the bookcase, the back of the chair he usually sits in, the green leather. It is all so familiar. It is all so good. 

He does not touch Thomas’ chair, though he looks at it, bracketed by the two candles. It is the brightest spot in the room and how fitting, James thinks fuzzily.

***

When Alfred Hamilton barks back at Thomas, James’ fingers clutch his napkin on his knees so hard his knuckles go white. 

When Alfred Hamilton calls Thomas _naive_ and _impertinent_ , James’ teeth clench hard. 

When Alfred Hamilton tells Miranda to keep her legs shut, James has nothing left in his body that can tense up, so he explodes. 

His legs stand on their own volition. His mouth moves and he tells the Earl to go. It all feels as if it is happening to someone else, as if he is separated from his own body and he is watching as if some other, poor bastard of a Navy Lieutenant is single handedly destroying his own career. 

The Earl leaves. James’ stomach flips. 

And then, and then, Thomas is closer, and James looks up at meets his eyes that are the colour of the sea and _Good Lord,_ he thinks, _I am not strong enough. I am not strong enough to be normal_ and he leans in. 

***

Falling into bed with Thomas is the easiest, most natural thing that has ever happened to James. 

He has never found anything easy in his life, never felt at home anywhere in particular, too awkwardly shaped to fit in most places in the world. He had resigned himself to feeling like this forever and accepted the forthcoming solitude. It is what one must do when one is not right. When one is odd. 

Now, James knows: God has made a place for him, a place where he fits perfectly like a peg that has finally found its nook. It is in the warm safety of Thomas’ arms around him. 

“God, James,” Thomas breathes against his cheek as he thrusts inside him. “You are so _beautiful_. I wish you could see yourself, I hope you can see what you do to me— James. _James_.” 

He talks so much, at any time, but most of all during sex. He does not seem to mind that James cannot wrench a single word from his own throat, lost as he is in the feel of Thomas’ warm skin under his fingers. There is so much to feel, to get lost in, and James’ teeth meet the spot where Thomas’ shoulder meets his neck to groan through his release. 

After, when their breathing stills, Thomas lets out that gentle, disbelieving laugh he always does after sex and kisses James’ nose. He begins to pull away but, thrust forward by some unknown force, James’ arms squeeze Thomas tight.

“Stay.” 

“Surely, a wet cloth—”

“In a bit. In a bit. Stay. Please.” There’s not much else James can say, not much he can vocalise, but here, in this warm space where they are both still hazy from pleasure, James feels a peculiar warm feeling settle deep in his belly. _Safety_ , the realisation comes over him, unexpected and comforting all at once. He has not felt this for a very long time, has not felt it since he was all of twelve and threatened with bloodletting and with a madhouse of nightmares. Now, Thomas’ weight is grounding him, it is making him feel entirely, fully in place in his own body. The physicality of it is intoxicating, 

Thomas pulls his head back to study James’ face carefully. James lets him; for once, he is not afraid of what will be seen there. After a second, Thomas smiles and readjusts himself. He pulls out of James, with the utmost care, and James exhales shakily at the feeling. Then, Thomas settles himself on top of James again, pressing him against the bed, planting gentle kisses at the edge of his jaw. 

“You like this, don’t you?” Thomas quietly asks, though he does not seem like he is actually expecting an answer. The ease with which he speaks his thoughts is endlessly comforting to James. “Me, laying on top of you like this.” 

James runs his fingers through the soft strands of Thomas’ hair. “I think I have made myself quite clear on the matter.”

An endearing flush covers Thomas’ cheeks as he wiggles his naked belly on the damp spot between them. “Yes, of course. I should hope you always like this part of it, and I will endeavour that you do. But this— this is different, somehow.” Thomas runs a finger down James’ arm. James’ fingers are twitching restlessly as they always do when he is trying to keep them still. Thomas does not go to stop them, he just carefully traces the bone of James’ wrist with reverence. “This makes you— happy? Comfortable?”

James’ heart threatens to leap out of his chest. It feels as if Thomas’ weight on top of him is the only thing that keeps it inside.

“It feels so right.” His voice is barely a whisper. “I have never felt this right in my life. I’ve never quite belonged anywhere.” _Until now. Until you._ James does not say it, for he worries this may be too much, too soon, when this tenderness between them is still as fragile as a sparrow’s ribcage. 

Thomas’ careful kisses move to his neck, to his chin, to the corner of his mouth. James may just weep from the gentleness of it, from the way Thomas handles him as if he is something precious, something worth protecting.

“You do belong.” The unyielding conviction in his voice threatens to tear James in two. “Anything I can do to convince you of this, I will. You belong with me, and I belong with you, and for as long as I have any say, we will not be parted, James. I promise I will take care of you.”

Happiness fills James’ entire body and spreads to all the places where Thomas’ weight is pressing against him. Like the morning light, it tickles between his toes and the back of his knees and the bones of his hips. It sneaks up to his wrists, to where Thomas’ finger still presses gently. With a flutter in his chest, James’ hands twitch happily and his thumb starts moving in circles over his other fingers, over and over and over again. Thomas’ hand shifts to James’ waist, and he pillows his head on James’ chest, with the smile of a man who has won a long, hard battle.

***

“You should not restrain yourself,” Thomas tells him gently, with the utmost care in his voice. “Not when you are with me, not when we’re like this. You should do what makes you happy, James.” 

“You make me happy,” James replies because it’s true. He has never felt the wild joy that Thomas ignites in his chest, has never known such a feeling to be possible. James decides that he is making up for a lifetime of a Thomas-less existence. Everything that he held so deep inside of his own chest can now bloom, in the safety of Thomas’ gaze and the warmth of his embrace. 

James also knows that is not what Thomas means. Their affection is forbidden, yes, but with every kiss, James feels that fall away. _Thomas is the best man I know_ , he rationalises, _the truest man I know. And if he wants this, if he does this, then it cannot be bad. It cannot be a sin._

What remains heavy within him are all these odd, confusing movements that twirl inside him that he has kept hidden his whole life, all about him that is queer and maybe even mad. They are complicated things, things James has no name for, and does not know if he can ever vocalise. Still, Thomas wants to see it all. He wants to know. And Lord, James wants him to know, too. And yet … 

And yet the fear is not easy to abandon. When he catches himself pacing or when his fingers tap his palms, again and again, he feels the weight of shame deep in his chest, like an undercurrent that drags him down to the deep, quiet blue of the ocean, until he can feel nothing at all. Sometimes, the tension makes him want to cry, to fall to the ground and sob like the child he was never allowed to be. Sometimes, he is back in an overly warm room, under the careful eye of a doctor, and trying so hard not to be _mad_. To not be sent to the _madhouse_ like that girl who—

As if he can see the turmoil inside him, Thomas reaches in and wrenches him out of the depths. Thomas gently unfurls his fingers when they clench painfully. Thomas traces the freckles on James’ arms and tells him of the shapes he can see there. Thomas presses his lips to James’ forehead. He is so warm and his skin smells of soap. _He is everything_ , James thinks, utterly terrified. _He is my whole world._

“Do not be ashamed,” Thomas tells him quietly one evening when James tries to stop his hands once again. “There is nothing bad, nothing shameful in this. In who you love. In who you are. In the way your mind works. You are all that is good in this world, James, and God made you exactly the way He intended. I will always be thankful for you.”

Thomas always says things like that, things that stay with James for days. It’s like he writes his confessions directly onto James’ heart. Once again, James feels the sharp point of the nib and it makes his chest flutter and his fingers wiggle. 

Slowly, carefully, he begins to tell Thomas things, small things. How the rough cotton of his shirt feels unpleasant against his back. How even a single hair out of place in his queue distracts him relentlessly until it is caught back inside. How he loves the sharp _flap_ sound of the fore topsail unfurling on the _Gloucester,_ or the creaking board in the captain’s cabin of the _Ruby_ , the one rope for the t’gallant on the _Hunter_ that needs a bit of a tougher tug to get going. He then starts talking about the rigging on the _Hunter_ and the mistakes the shipbuilders made with it, and how it makes it unique, and does Thomas know—

And before he can stop himself, before he can set out an excuse for letting his tongue wag, Thomas would reach for his hands. “No, keep going. I want to hear it.” And in his eyes is that same wild, wild happiness that drives James forward, too. 

Without realising, he lets his hands roam free again, lets them do the repetitive movements they so itch to do constantly. He lets himself rock back and forth on the balls of his feet when he’s thinking. Slowly, James feels his body finally catch up with him, and at night he sleeps easier, his muscles no longer aching from the strain he puts them through to keep them contained. 

Thomas encourages him. He lets James bury his nose in the spot behind his ear and he laughs at the tickle of James’ breath. When asked, he stretches over James, covering him thoroughly with his own body, gladly giving him his weight. One morning, when James has to dress in a hurry, Thomas presses one of his own shirts into James’ hand. 

“Wear this,” he presses a kiss to James’ temple. “Let me know how you find it.”

The shirt is large on him, the sleeves are overly long, and it is made of a gentle, beautiful material, endlessly smoother and easier on the skin than anything James owns. Most of all, though, it smells of Thomas. It helps him carry that wild joy with him wherever he goes, and when he runs his thumb over the seam of the sleeve, over and over again, he remembers that there is one place in the world he can now call home.

***

Miranda worries. She worries, because she loves them; James knows as much. They have spoken, at length, about James’ feelings, about how that impacts what he had with Miranda, her marriage with Thomas. Carefully, and as many times that she needs to, Miranda reassures James that jealousy has never been a part of her nature and that she will not stand in the way of what makes them both happy. James feels guilty still and spends time with her when she is alone, hoping that his company will give her satisfaction in the way that he can no longer give her in bed. It would feel dishonest and unfair now, when he knows that his entire being has been set on fire with the spark of just one kiss.

“I love you. I love Thomas,” she says again one evening, carding her fingers through James’ hair in the way he likes so well, as they wait for Thomas to return home. “I miss you, of course I do. But I can tell— your nature is very particular, James, and I would never fault you for it. Or him. All I want is for you both to be happy and well.”

“Something is bothering you,” James nuzzles his cheek against the fabric of her dress. “Even if it is not that, something is. I can tell by the way you look at us, sometimes. What is it? Please tell me.”

A pause, though her fingers do not stop, scratching gently against his scalp. “Your joy is written so brightly on your face,” she speaks finally. “On both your faces. And there are people, who— being happy the way you are, the way _we_ are, is a dangerous thing. I am scared of losing you to the people who may see your joy and harm you.” 

God, does James know that fear all too well. He has had many nightmares just like the ones she is describing, ones of prisons and torture and a tight, tight noose around his neck. One of bloodletting and baths and a place that begins with B. He does not let it darken his mind now, not in this bright, comfortable room; instead, he squeezes her knee through the silk of her dress. 

“You won’t, Miranda. We’re very careful. I promise you.”

She does not speak of it again, just keeps stroking his hair. James feels unsettled by her warning, like a chill has entered the room and is stubbornly refusing to bow to the warmth radiating from the hearth. 

The clock chimes and Thomas walks into the study, looking exhausted. James shoots up to meet him, with a kiss, an embrace, and only when Thomas kisses him back does he feel Miranda’s warning eyes burning into his back.

***

“You will be away for absolute ages. Three months. It will feel twice as long.”

They are at James’ rooms tonight, for their proximity to the docks; James has to be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow, but he had refused to spend his last night in London away from Thomas and his embrace. Thomas, clearly, had felt much the same.

Now, James wishes he had had the strength, for Thomas sounds so full of sorrow it tears at his heart.

“I will miss you so much,” Thomas tells him, “I am not quite sure what I will do with myself.”

“None of that,” he presses his lips to Thomas’ temple. Their legs are tangled together, and Thomas’ big toe gently traces the bone of James’ ankle. “You will have plenty to do. There is much work to be done on the proposal still, and Peter will help you with it all. You _better_ finish that letter to Winslowe by the time I’m back, or God help me, I will chuck you into the Thames first thing off the dock.”

Thomas’ laugh is bright and delighted. 

“Will you now?”

“I will be jumping right after you, naturally. But it is important to make a point.”

Thomas kisses him, then, and his smile tastes like the sun on a warm, windless day. He is still warm and he still smells of soap and _he is everything_ , James realises he is no longer afraid. _He is my whole world._ He drinks Thomas in greedily as he presses their foreheads together.

“Did Odysseus not return to Penelope, in the end? No ocean can keep me away from you, I’m afraid. You are stuck with me.” 

“So I am Penelope in this metaphor? And more importantly, it will not be ten years before I see you again, my love. If it is, I will swim the bloody ocean myself until I find you.” 

James pulls Thomas into an embrace and makes sure their bodies are touching everywhere they can possibly touch. _I can stare in your eyes forever,_ he thinks but does not say. _I love you_ , he thinks but does not say. 

Instead, he tilts Thomas’ face up and kisses him, slow, undulating, memorising the taste of his lips, the cut of his jaw, the way Thomas’ tongue gently explores his mouth. 

They are slow, unhurried, just kissing, without the energy or sense to take anything further. When James’ hand slips under Thomas’ shirt, Thomas pulls back from the kiss. “Oh, this reminds me. Wait here.” 

“Thomas,” James complains when he suddenly loses his lover’s comforting weight. A placating kiss is placed on his forehead. 

“Just a second while I fetch something from my coat. Before I forget.”

James huffs and pulls his shirt over his head. When Thomas turns around, James is naked, an eyebrow raised, bedsheet thrown artistically over his crotch.

“Oh, you are a fiend, you are,” Thomas laughs and nearly trips to get back on the bed. "Would it kill you to wait five minutes while I'm trying to be romantic?"

“I’m not to touch you again for God knows how long. I think I can be forgiven a little impatience, my lord.”

Thomas kisses him again, hard, as if to erase the possibility of them being at all separated. “Okay, but first. This.” He produces the item that he’s been hiding behind his back, a boyish expression of joy on his face. His eyes are the colour of the sea. 

“It is— a box?”

“Yes, but there is also something in the box.” Thomas takes James’ hand and unfurls his palm, placing the small wooden box in it. “Open it.”

“Thomas, if this is something extravagantly expensive—”

“Just open it, James.”

The wide smile on Thomas’ face is so beautiful, that James struggles with the delicate latch on the box, his fingers simply refusing to keep still. Thomas pauses. “Would you like me to—”

“No, I’ve got it.” And he does. On a small piece of silk, there lies a silver signet ring, with an intricate ribbed design on top. It is not the same as Thomas’, but it looks no less expensive, no less valuable. James’ breath hitches, his toes grip the bedclothes fiercely. “Thomas. I can’t accept this.”

Thomas’ hands close over James’ as he holds the box. “I want you to. Please. It is the least that I can—” Uncharacteristically, Thomas stutters over his own words but, as he presses their foreheads together, seems to find them in the shared spaces between their breaths. “I want to give you so much. I want to take your hand and walk with you through Vauxhall Gardens. I want to kiss you as you go into the Admiralty to start your day. Everywhere I go, I want to show off how beautiful and clever you are, to say proudly that you are my love and I am yours. But I can’t do that. So this is the least I can give you, to show you how important you are to me. Please take it.”

James’ breath stutters in his throat as his thumb traces the pattern on the ring. He recognises it instantly; it is the same as the one embroidered in the delicate sleeves of Thomas’ shirts. 

“I—” His voice betrays him now, of all times. The shuffle of the bedsheets is audible now, as his toes pull at them. God how he longs to say it, he wants to, for what better moment to say it than right now, but he cannot, he _cannot_ force the words out of himself. The emotion that wells up in his chest is too powerful to vocalise.

“Don’t say anything,” Thomas whispers, as if he has heard all he needs in James’ silence. “You don’t need to; I know, my love. I know.” 

He takes the ring and slips it on James’ pinky finger with reverence. Experimentally, James flexes his finger against it; he feels the comforting smoothness of the silver, and it moves with his joints as if it were always there. He presses the top of it to his bottom lip, winces at the feeling, then twirls the ring with his other hand—it spins freely, staying secure around his finger. Instantly, James is enamoured with the feeling of it, with the _purpose_ it gives his hands.

“James,” Thomas is watching him so intently it is like he has torn his own heart out and presented it to James for safekeeping. James lets go of the ring, gives his hands the new purpose of grabbing Thomas’ face and kissing him, hard enough to bruise. 

***

As he watches London disappear behind the horizon, James’ muscles have stiffened again, his jaw clenched, his back is ramrod straight. Storm clouds begin gathering to the east. The ship groans beneath his feet. 

With his hands behind him, James’ fingers land on the ring. He spins it once, twice — just to try — and the feeling of it brings him right back into a candlelit bedroom, filled with warmth and freedom and love and words, words, words, so many words. 

Unbidden, James smiles, then turns on his heel to look at the horizon ahead. There, in Nassau, he knows he will find what he set out to. He will find Thomas’ dream and he will bring it back to him, whatever the cost. And until he can see him again, he will seek comfort in seawater with the colour of Thomas’ eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to my good pals [novaeangliae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/novaeangliae) and [gearsystem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gearsystem) for general encouragement and beta reading of this!
> 
> this will mostly be the start of the autistic james series but i'm not entirely sure if i vibe with all my ideas for him as an autistic pirate just yet. we'll have to wait and see. 
> 
> if u caught the easter egg reference to another show about gays on boats well done
> 
> find me on the socials to yell at me about james flint! [blahaj_haver](https://twitter.com/blahaj_haver) on twitter and [blahajhaver](https://blahajhaver.tumblr.com) on tumblr


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